numents, grim and solitary,
without feeling the whole spirit of the Belgian history, and calling
up Philip van Artevelde and the Ghentish troubles.

In the smaller cities the presence of this significant landmark is
almost invariable. There is ever the lone and lorn tower, belfry, or
spire painted in dark sad colours, seen from afar off, rising from the
decayed little town below; often of some antique, original shape that
pleases, and yet with a gloomy misanthropical air, as of total
abandonment. They are rusted and abrased. From their ancient jaws we
hear the husky, jangling chimes, musical and melancholy, the
disorderly rambling notes and tunes of a gigantic musical box. Towards
the close of some summer evening, as the train flies on, we see the
sun setting on the grim walls of some dead city, and on the clustered
houses. Within the walls are the formal rows of trees planted in
regimental order which fringe and shelter them; while rises the dark,
copper-coloured tower, often unfinished and ragged, but solemn and
funereal, or else capped by some quaint lantern, from whose jaws
presently issue the muffled tones of the chimes, halting and broken,
and hoarse and wheezy with centuries of work. Often we pass on;
sometimes we descend, and walk up to the little town and wander
through its deserted streets. We are struck with wonder at some vast
and noble church, cathedral-like in its proportions, and nearly always
original--such variety is there in these antique Belgian fanes--and
facing it some rustic mouldering town-hall of surprising beauty. There
are a few little shops, a few old houses, but the generality have
their doors closed. There is hardly a soul to be seen, certainly not a
cart. There are innumerable dead cities of this pattern.

Coming out, I find it broad day. A few natives with their baskets are
hurrying to the train. I note, rising above the houses, two or three
other solemn spires and grim churches, which have an inexpressibly sad
and abandoned air, from their dark grimed tones which contrast with
the bright gay hues of the modern houses that crowd upon them. There
is one grave, imposing tower, with a hood like a monk's. Then I wander
to the handsome triangle-shaped _place_, with its statue to Margaret
of Parma--erst Governor of the Netherlands, and whose memory is
regarded with affection. Here is the old belfry, which has been so
clamorous, standing apart, like those of Ghent, Dunkirk, and a few
other town